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"I want to watch you transform."
John rinsed and spat. "No."
This was an old argument. Sherlock had been asking ever since that first day in Bart's, when Sherlock had deduced that John was a werewolf from the way he entered a room, and every time, John said no. Sherlock had tried asking first thing in the morning when John was still half asleep, at night as John was dozing off, and even after sex, when John was limp and sated and blissful. It'd led to a few arguments, but these days John didn't shout about it anymore. He just said no, then went on with whatever else he was doing. Right now, it was flossing.
Sherlock leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, arms crossed, and huffed. "We've already had sex; that's arguably more intimate than seeing you transform."
"That's not what it is." John was still flossing, but he knew Sherlock would find it perfectly intelligible.
"What is it, then? You can't possibly be dangerous whilst transforming, so you can't be concerned about hurting me. You're vulnerable during the transformation, but I'm hardly going to hurt you."
"I just don't want to, and you'll have to be all right with that." John rinsed and spat once more time before running his fingertips across his stubbled jaw.
"Leave it," said Sherlock. "I like it."
"It's not just about you, you know," John said, but he left it.
-----
That was before Sherlock went away.
John called it went away in his head for the first few months, because he couldn't think the word died and he certainly couldn't think the words committed suicide. That way lay madness.
Those full moons were...destructive. He didn't remember them well; they felt like the full moons of his childhood, when he hadn't yet learned control, and his parents had to lock him in the garden shed. (This was not uncommon among were parents, and they had a specially outfitted garden shed, with a carpeted interior and more than adequate ventilation.) When he came to in the mornings, it'd be to broken furniture, shredded books, and torn upholstery. It got to the point where John decided he'd have to move out of 221B Baker Street, at least temporarily. At least until he got hold of himself.
"You don't have to," said Mrs Hudson.
No, he really had to; that morning, John had woken up to Sherlock's smashed violin.
-----
Then Sherlock came back.
John was angry at first. Shocked and angry and deliriously joyful. He wanted to rip Sherlock's throat out at the same time he wanted to cover Sherlock in kisses, cover Sherlock in his scent, because Sherlock smelled different.
He looked different, too: thinner, tighter, shorter hair, ragged nails. He breathed differently, walked differently, stood differently, slept differently, ate differently. But he was still the same glittering genius, the same sparkling wit that had made John breathe out "extraordinary" in a cab all those years ago.
John was different too, but that was one thing that hadn't changed about him: he still thought Sherlock was amazing.
"Before," John said, one night as they lay in bed, and then he stopped.
Sherlock didn't say anything, but something in the quality of his skin and hair had changed: he was listening.
"Before," said John, "you wanted, you wanted to see me transform. During the full moon."
Now Sherlock had stopped breathing.
"Do you still want that?" said John.
"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered.
"Do you?"
"Of course."
"All right, then," said John. "Tomorrow."
-----
"Okay." John positioned the chair in the corner of the room. "Sit there, and no matter what, don't move. It might--I mean--it could get ugly, but it's probably fine. I don't need your help, and if you come near me, I might hurt you."
Sherlock said nothing and sat in the chair.
The upstairs bedroom had not fared well in Sherlock's absence, and they were slowly putting it to rights now that Sherlock had returned. There were new curtains on the windows, a new wardrobe to replace the one that John had shattered, and a new mattress on the bed. The bed itself was splintered, but otherwise sound, as was the door. The wallpaper still hung in tattered curls in some places. Some of Sherlock's newly purchased books and scientific paraphernalia were set up on the desk in the corner. He'd had the violin repaired as well; it hadn't been as badly damaged as all that, and if it sounded a little different, well, they were none of them the same, were they?
John undressed himself, folded his clothes and put them in the wardrobe. He took a deep breath and rolled his head about on his neck. He stretched his fingers and toes and bent backwards until he felt his spine pop. He could feel the hairs on his skin standing on end. He closed his eyes as the full moon rose and took John's human shape with it.
He didn't know what a werewolf transformation looked like. He'd never seen another werewolf transform--how could he, when he would be transforming at that moment? And he'd never tried to place a mirror or a recording device in the room. He never cared; the transformation occupied every cell of his body. His heart stopped; his bones shifted; his muscles unfurled and reshaped themselves; all became blackness and unconsciousness. He didn't care to see what he looked like when he died and was reborn as a beast.
When his heart restarted again, John was on all fours. He couldn't yet see, but he could smell: Sherlock, car exhaust, sweat, dust, the neighbour's cat, the rubbish bin downstairs. He could hear the whine of traffic outside, the buzz of electrical wires, every sigh and creak of this old building, Mrs Hudson moving about downstairs. His body was still putting the finishing touches on the transformation: brushing out his tail, growing his nails, lining his muzzle with whiskers.
Now John could see Sherlock, perched at the very edge of the seat where John had left him. He had his elbows on his knees, leaning forward as if trying to get as close to John as he could whilst still obeying the letter of the law. John padded over and pushed his nose into Sherlock's hands.
"That was beautiful," Sherlock murmured, burying his fingers in John's ruff. He pressed his forehead to John's. "Thank you."
Thank you? John wasn't sure Sherlock had ever thanked John for anything in his life. Beautiful? That wasn't a word he was accustomed to hearing about himself, either.
John slapped his tail against the floor once, twice. Well. Things were different now, after all. He closed his eyes and put his head in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock rubbed his ears, and they stayed like that, breathing together, until John decided it was time to go.
---end---